You know why you’re here, Rick, so why don’t we just get started? Sitting here in silence isn’t going to change anything. You still have to debrief.

I know, but I don’t see the point. I just don’t see the point.

We go through this every week, Rick. You know why we have to do it. You know it’s mandatory. So, why do you keep fighting it?

Because it’s a waste of time, Marion.

Why is it a waste of time? You’ve never explained that before.

I could be using this time to see one more patient. I could be at home, or at the very least, almost all the way home. I could be spending time with my kids. But no, I’m here doing mandatory debriefing all because one stupid guy couldn’t keep his shit together.

Harsh way of looking at things. I thought Edward was your friend.

He was. Look, can we stop shooting shit and get through what we’re mandated to get through? Please?

Sure. How’s your new case going?

Fine. He seems to be adjusting well to the medication. But you really want to know about Georgia and if she’s got inside my head yet. Don’t you?

Has she?

No. And I told you before, when you gave me her case, that she wouldn’t be able to get into my head. She can try any way she likes, any way she thinks will work, but she won’t be able to manipulate me the way she’s manipulated others. I’ve seen patients, girls, like her before. They’re all up in your face trying to get a reaction. The less you give them, the more they try to rattle you, and that’s when they make their mistakes.

You think she’s going to make a mistake? About what, Rick?

I don’t know. But I don’t think I’m that far away from finding out.

And you’re positive that she isn’t manipulating you?

Yes.

How can you be sure?

Do you really think that little of me as a therapist, Marion, that you think I’d be easily manipulated by a twenty-year-old? Thanks a lot.

She is an attractive, vulnerable twenty-year-old. What I do think is that she’s got under your skin already, but you don’t want to admit it.

You want to take this case away from me. Probably give it to Helen instead. You think I can’t handle her. But I’ve had harder cases to work through than Georgia’s. Look, Marion, she’s court appointed. She comes to us from the hospital. She’s guarded all the way here, in the room, and all the way back again. There’s no way she can get up to anything.

Nine therapists in twelve months. How are you going to justify her therapist record? Because I’ know you’ve got an excuse for her on that one. And I have to wonder why you asked for her case, Rick? You saw the press coverage of her case. We all did. But you, you were the only one to put your hand up and volunteer to take her on. Why?

Because I can help her. That’s why. There’s no ulterior motive. I don’t have any other reason than it’s my job to fix people, and I believe I can fix her. It’s not a God complex or any other psychological reason you might want to come up with. It’s straight forward, out and out I think I can do the best job. Better than anyone else here.

You brought in your notebooks?

Yeah, on your desk.

I’ll go over them and get them back to you Monday before your first session.

You know, she asked something funny. Not funny ha ha. Funny strange. She wanted to know what I do with all of the notebooks. In the fifteen years I’ve been treating people, no one has ever, ever asked what I do with my notebooks. No one has ever wanted to know what I do with them when they’re full. Georgia’s the first.

And you don’t think that’s a red flag at all? Something you should have mentioned to me earlier? What did you tell her?

Apparently, in terms of symbolism, the dragonfly represents change and a change in perspective of self-realisation. The sort of change that brings about maturity and poise and power; of looking at things on a deeper level than one might have earlier in life. It’s representative of the defeat of self-created illusions, of focussing on living in the moment. And within every culture of the world, dragonflies represent the same thing. They are a constant in term of symbolism. Which, when you think about it, is really amazing because we humans can’t get our shit together on any other level to believe in the same thing that any other culture believes in. But dragonflies, we’ve got that one nailed.

So, how did I come to this? How did I arrive at this place? How did I become so . . . pseudo-philosophical?

You already know the answer to those questions. You brought me here. You made me. And now you want me to sit here and tell you all about the workings of my mind. And I think in some way you’re thoroughly enjoying yourself, aren’t you? You’re a sick bastard. You’d have to be to want to listen to all these people talk about what’s going on in their heads. You get off on it, don’t you? The power. The opportunities you have to manipulate vulnerable people. You’re more screwed up than any of us, that’s for sure.

What’s changed your mind about therapy, Georgia? Why are you speaking like this today?

You’d like me to tell you, wouldn’t you? So, you can write it down in your little book there. Let me ask you something, Dr. Anderson . . . what do you do with all those notes that you make? Where do they end up? Who reads them?

Why is that important to you, Georgia?

Ha, I see what you did there. You’re trying to find an in any way you can. Well, I’ll tell you for shits and giggles. It’s not particularly important to me. I’m just . . . interested. I mean, it’s not like you have shelves and shelves of those notebooks in here. So, I’m curious. Where do you store all of them? Like, do you have one per client, or do you have multiple clients per book? What’s your theory for organising your notes?

You know what they say about curiosity.

Luckily, Rick, I’m not a cat, so I don’t need to be concerned about that. And seriously, you’re pulling that one on me? As if I don’t have enough to worry about. And before you ask, no, I’m not actually worried about anything. I mean, it’s not like I have a choice, court appointed sessions, and all.

Okay, take me back to dragonflies. Why’d you bring them up? What interests you about dragonflies?

They’re pretty, Rick. That’s what interests me about dragonflies. They’re pretty. Why’d I bring them up? I don’t know. You expect me to talk to you about stuff, so I’m talking to you about stuff. And I know you really want to talk about the juicy stuff, like why’d I do what I did, but hey, I have a pretty diverse range of interests. Don’t you like talking about dragonflies, Doc?

They mean nothing to me, Georgia, but I think there’s a deeper meaning for you.

Ironic, your statement, given what I told you about the symbolism of dragonflies. Deeper meaning and all.

You know what really interests me about dragonflies? They’re free. No one to tell them what to do, when to do it, or tell them they need to attend a dozen court appointed sessions with a shrink. They fly off whenever they want, to wherever they want. You know they can fly between thirty and sixty kilometres an hour? Those fragile wings can maintain speeds faster than people can walk. Isn’t that remarkable. Humans. We think we’re so great but this tiny creature shits all over us for remarkable feats, don’t you agree, Doc?

We should talk about why you’re here.

Yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? I’ve noticed that you don’t like answering my questions, but you expect me to answer yours. Kind of a one-way deal there, Rick. I prefer calling you Rick. Doc, Doctor Anderson is just too . . . stuffy, and you’re not a stuffy kind of guy, are you Rick?

See? You didn’t answer that one either. Never mind.

Okay, okay, let’s talk about why I’m here. Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle the gory details?

I’m fascinated, at the moment, by a particular TV channel, a couple of TV shows, and a reaction to a recent tragedy that’s garnered national attention. The tragedy I’m referring to is the suicide of a 14-year-old girl who was the face of a national brand. Unable to withstand the torment of relentless cyberbullying, young Dolly made the decision that it was better to be dead than to have to endure the vicious barbs of her tormentors.

Now, well may you ask, how does that relate to my fascination with the TV channel and shows? I’m so glad you asked. For ease of understanding, let us refer to it as Channel A from here on, and the TV shows as B (a breakfast show) and C (a prime time reality based competition). Channel A’s high rating breakfast show, B, adopted the issue of cyberbullying as its issue du jour. The anchors of B have pushed politicians to give answers about cyberbullying and related laws, have raised awareness amongst its audience of the reach of online behaviour, and are pushing for schools to teach a cyber safety syllabus. *Insert my snippy, snarky soapbox comment here: Because, y’know, teachers don’t already have enough to contend with regarding curriculum and syllabus content. Hell, teaching another specific content area would be a breeze. Don’t even get me started on the fact that maybe it might be helpful if parents educated themselves and their kids about technology and online behaviour. Sorry, I’m ranting. I’ll move back on track now.*

B is hammering the need for a syllabus for teaching online behaviour. Really, really hammering it. The two anchors of the show are all but demanding the federal and state Education Ministers create that content right now. Demanding it. They’re outraged that a 14 year old could be pushed to believe that taking her own life is a far better thing to do than face down those tormenting her. And that’s how it should be. We should be outraged that a 14 year old has taken her life because of the behaviour of some people online. That sort of torment is inescapable. And we should be outraged that it’s happening. Yes, I completely agree. And no, I’m not being facetious. A child ending his or her own life because of online or offline ar$eholes is beyond unacceptable. It is a travesty, a tragedy, heinous, inexcusable, and our laws need to catch up to the technology that we now deal with on a daily basis.

What I find nauseating about B spewing this outrage is the fact that Channel A, on one hand, finds this behaviour outrageous and unacceptable, but on the other hand, broadcasts another show, C, which openly supports and condones bullying behaviour. I’ll just sit here whilst you get your head around that. B finds bullying behaviour unacceptable, and show C condones it. Both on Channel A. And show B regularly cross-promotes show C, which to my mind, then means that show B is also condoning the behaviour that they deemed inexcusable just that morning. You can’t have it both ways. You simply cannot say online bullying behaviour is unacceptable, but in the next breath say you’re looking forward to the sh!t storm that’s going to happen that night on the latest episode of C. You can’t do it. And if you try, you’re a bloody hypocrite.

Channel 7 A, get your act together and stop sending mixed messages through Sunrise show B and My Kitchen Rules show C. What you’re doing, the message you’re sending, is f**ked. And yes, I’m aware that my argument just took a dive because I used profanity to get my feelings across, but I’m really angry about this and f**ked is a word that works perfectly in many situations and with many emotions. It’s time that those who work within Channel A and think shows like C and the nasty behaviour it condones from contestants are held accountable as part of the mechanism that breeds inexcusable behaviour. It’s a f**king cooking show, not a nasty-ar$ed personality contest. And show B . . . choose a side to stand on: either be outraged by that behaviour, or condone it, but for the love of all that’s holy, stop pretending to be outraged whilst you’re greedily absorbing similar behaviour from contestants on your channel’s reality show.

‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ Ciaran wanted to have faith in Jeremy’s plan, but it seemed nothing short of utter stupidity. Jeremy paused, stilled his mind, and tried to sound as if he wasn’t pissed off by Ciaran’s array of increasingly inane questions.

‘I have no fucking idea, Ciaran. I’ve never had to mount a rescue mission before. But rest assured, we’ll soon find out if it’s going to work or not.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘If it doesn’t, you, me, Brennan, Caroline, none of us will have to worry about anything anymore because Korsakov will kill us. Does that just about cover everything you need to know, Ciaran?’

Brennan added, ‘And if Korsakov doesn’t kill us, Hennessey will because we’re supposed to be doing his job, not rescuing Groban’s piece of arse.’

Gina watched the three men argue back and forth for the better part of twenty minutes. She’d taken herself off to the sitting room, and with both the kitchen and sitting room doors open, she had the perfect view of Jeremy, Ciaran, and Brennan discussing whatever the hell they were arguing about. From his expression, she could tell that Jeremy had had enough of Ciaran talking, and it pained her to watch as the older man rather obviously cut her boyfriend down to size. But she dared not intervene. Jeremy looked like the sort of bloke who’d knife you as soon as look at you. And Brennan, well, she thought he’d just go along with Jeremy for the ride.

‘Probably scared shitless of the wiry shit.’

Jeremy looked back at Gina. She wondered if he’d heard her talking to herself. Not that it mattered. He was nothing to her, and once Ciaran was done with this job, he’d promised her he’d go straight. She didn’t care if he was a toilet cleaner, or a cab driver, just as long as it was a legitimate, legal way to make a living, and not this larking about for Hennessey.

‘We leave at five thirty,’ Jeremy ordered. ‘Get the van ready. I need to make a call, and then we’ll have to go pick some stuff up from a bloke I know.’

* * * * *

It was five o’clock. Caroline could hear the bells of St. Stephen somewhere outside. She’d counted the hours every time the bells rang. Hearing the bells ring each hour was torturous. It felt like a slow death to her. She didn’t know when they’d end her life, just that they’d do it.

‘Sooner rather than later,’ she wished.

She heard the door behind her swing open and hit the wall. The footsteps were unmistakably Korsakov’s.

‘Just kill me. Get it over and done with.’

He stood in front of her, resplendent in an Armani suit. A peacock displaying his prowess. He smoothed the arms of his jacket, straightened his tie, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. Caroline focussed on his gold cufflinks rather than his face. She didn’t want to cry in front of him, and looking at his cufflinks was a good way to avoid that.

‘My dear, I’ve no intention of killing you. No, no, no. that would be such a waste of a beautiful, young woman.’

‘What are you going to do then?’

‘I’m going to take you apart, piece by piece, and I’m going to send those pieces to your Mr. Groban. And then he, your Mr. Groban, is going to convince his boss, Mr. Hennessey, to pay for the goods that he has entered into a contract with me to purchase. But I certainly won’t let you die. Not until I get what I want. After that, who knows?’

He walked away from her, and back out of the room. When she was sure he’d gone, Caroline released the tiniest sigh, followed by a whimper. If she let go, if she allowed herself to really react to Korsakov, she was afraid she’d scream out a guttural, agonised cry. She could hear it in her head, and it was akin to the sound she’d heard on nature documentaries when animals were in excruciating pain or on their death beds. She wasn’t going to be one of those animals. She’d never give Korsakov the satisfaction of seeing her like that.

* * * * *

With stops made, gear collected, and information gathered, Jeremy, Brennan, and Ciaran were on their way to rescue Caroline.

‘Do you trust that guy?’

‘Ciaran,’ Jeremy said, ‘can you stop asking questions, please? This is one for you to think about, not speak to. Do you really think I’d go to a guy for information if I didn’t trust the guy or the information he was giving me? Remember, it’s a rhetorical question. I don’t want you to speak.’ He turned his attention to Brennan. ‘You stay in the van. Be ready to go because we’re going to come out like a bullet, and we’ll probably have Korsakov or his idiots right behind us, shooting. I want you in the side street. As soon as you hear gunfire, as soon as you hear it, I want you round the front of the building, and ready to get hell out of there. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ Brennan replied, his eyes on the road ahead in sheer concentration.

‘I’ll go through this one last time, just to make sure everyone’s on the same page. We’ll pull up round the side, and Ciaran, you and I will go in through the cellar window. It’s going to be a tight squeeze, but if Rollo’s right, Korsakov won’t have bothered to put anyone on guard down there. We’ll go straight to the third floor and work down. Brennan, you stay alert and ready for us to get out. We’ll have the girl with us, and she probably won’t be moving very fast, so you do need to move quickly. Pull around to the front and be ready to hightail it out of there. When we go, we’ll head straight to Hennessey’s. He owes me one or two favours, so sanctuary’s on him. Especially given it’s because of him that we’re having to rescue her. No, Ciaran, I’m not going to ask if anyone has any questions because I don’t want to hear anything from you. We go in at six.’

‘We’re here.’ Brennan manoeuvred the transit van to the side of the building and waited for Jeremy and Ciaran to tool up.

Ciaran stepped out of the van, and looked directly across to the looming spire of St. Stephen’s.

‘So, the cheeky, Russian bastard’s in the rectory of the church?’

Jeremy nodded. It was all the response Ciaran was going to get. He looked up at the clock on the spire. A minute to go. At six they would ingress. At six, he prayed they wouldn’t die, as the bells of St. Stephen signalled their ingress.

The bells of St. Stephen rang out on the hour, every hour. It was a comforting sound for Gina, reminding her that she was at home and safe. Only today, she didn’t feel safe. Not now. Not since Korsakov had made himself at home in her home. Not since Korsakov abducted Caroline right in front of her eyes. Even Ciaran’s presence, his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, couldn’t give her the feeling of safety that she needed now.

‘And when did you say it happened?’ Jeremy wanted to get the details straight in his head before he made a decision on what to do next. Gina looked at the wall clock. The facts tumbled around in her mind as she tried to find the right answer.

‘Twenty minutes ago. Right before I called Ciaran.’

‘Did he say anything at all about where he was going? Anything that might give us an idea about where he’s taken your friend?’

Gina considered his question. Had Korsakov said anything? She couldn’t remember and shook her head.

‘No, I don’t think so. I can’t remember.’

Brennan paced around the room as Jeremy interrogated Gina. He pressed his hands to his ears.

‘What the fuck is that noise?’ he snarled. Ciaran glared at him. Typical Brennan, interrupting important business with inane bloody questions.

‘It’s the church bells,’ Ciaran snapped. ‘What the fuck is your problem?’

Brennan stopped pacing and looked out of the window that faced the church. ‘I hate churches. And I hate church bells.’

‘What?’ Ciaran didn’t want an answer from Brennan, he simply couldn’t believe that the driver would say something so stupid. ‘What the fuck has that got to do with what we’re trying to do here? Stupid thing to say.’

‘Who are you calling stupid?’ Brennan growled.

‘Who do you think?’ replied Ciaran.

‘Listen you shitty, little fuckwit, if you keep shooting your mouth off like that, I’ll punch it right off your shitty, little face.’

Jeremy excused himself from speaking with Gina, and strode over to Brennan. He grabbed the front of Brennan’s shirt in his hands, and yanked him forward.

‘If I were you, McCormack, I’d shut the fuck up because I’d be worried that someone was going to slap me stupid. We’re trying to help Gina here. We don’t need your dumbarse comments. We don’t care if you don’t like churches. It’s not important. What is important, is that we get Caroline back safely from Korsakov without any casualties on our part. Is that clear to you? Do you understand?’

Shocked by Jeremy’s menacing manner, all Brennan could do was nod his head.

‘Good. Because I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth unless I ask you a direct question.’ Jeremy threw him backwards with a single push, and returned to Gina’s side to continue questioning her.

* * * * *

She knew what the outcome of this situation would be. She’d end up dead because of something Anthony did or didn’t do. Accepting that death was coming, and there was nothing at all that she could do about it was one option she had. She considered, albeit briefly, trying to make an escape. It was another option she could go with, but it would also likely end in death. Korsakov would send his men after her, and there was no way she could outrun them. There was nowhere to hide. Caroline’s final option was hope, and it was the one she put her faith in. Hoping that someone would come and rescue her. Hoping that Gina had managed to get word to Ciaran or Anthony or Mr. Hennessey, anyone at all. Hell, at this stage, she’d even be happy to see the police. Hope. A word she loved and reviled simultaneously.

‘Who am I kidding?’ she said to herself. ‘No one’s coming for me.’

Hoping they’d kill her quickly, she slouched further down into the plastic chair that Korsakov had his brutes tie her to. She could hear them outside the door, shuffling round, going about their business, making crude remarks about her body and what they really wanted to do with her if they got the chance.

‘Please, God,’ she prayed, ‘let them kill me quickly. Before they get to do any of that stuff to me.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘Amen.’

* * * * *

The call came through on his mobile phone. He didn’t recognise the number, and took his time to answer it. Things were a little more difficult to do these days with one less finger.

‘Hello?’ Although the number was new to him, Anthony immediately recognised the voice on the phone.

‘Hello, Groban,’ Korsakov replied. ‘I’ve got a little something of yours. If you want it back, you’re going to need to have Hennessey pay for what he intends to buy.’

‘What do you mean you’ve got something of mine?’ The next voice Anthony heard was Caroline’s. She barely had the opportunity to say hello before he heard her gut wrenching scream. He didn’t know what Korsakov had done to her, but he did know that she was in pain.

‘Leave her the fuck alone!’ Anthony screamed.

‘Do what I told you. Get Hennessey to pay, and you’ll have your little woman back. Well, you’ll have most of your little woman back.’ The call was disconnected before Anthony could make any sort of reply to Korsakov’s demand.

After inviting himself into Wakefield Manor, Korsakov settled in the ballroom with a glass of single malt whiskey. He’d helped himself to the bar, just as he intended to help himself to anything else he desired in the world. First on his list was Caroline James. It had been easy to discover that she was Anthony Groban’s girlfriend of the moment. The grubby little shyster would make sure he’d get his money if Dmitri had his woman. Acquiring her would be relatively easy. She did the late shift at Hennessey’s club. One way or another, Dmitri Korsakov was going to get his money.

A much simpler way of acquiring Caroline was to wait at Wakefield Manor for her and her little friend to arrive. His investigators told Korsakov of the friendship between Caroline and Gina, and he decided at trip to the manor would be a fine place to begin his new acquisition. He hadn’t come alone. A contingent of his hard men were strategically positioned around the immediate perimeter of the manor. They were as far from being inconspicuous as they could possibly be, but Dmitri wasn’t concerned with how invisible his men were.

* * * * *

‘Stop by Gina’s before we do the job,’ Ciaran instructed Brennan from the back of the van. ‘I’ve just got a text from her. She needs to see me.’

‘We don’t have time to stop,’ Jeremy replied. ‘Keep driving.’

‘But it’s important.’ Ciaran handed his mobile phone to Jeremy. Gina’s text message was displayed on the screen. Jeremy reread the message four times before changing his mind.

‘Get to Wakefield Manor as fast as you can, Brennan. As fast as you can.’

Brennan took his eyes off the winding road for a moment. Jeremy was wearing the focussed expression he always had on when they were on a job. It was not usual for him to be wearing it in the van on the way to the job though.

‘What’s up?’ Brennan asked.

‘Eyes on the road!’ yelled Jeremy. ‘Keep your bloody eyes on the road.’

Brennan steered the almost out of control van back onto the road, spraying gravel as it went.

‘You trying to fucking kill us before we get to the job? Shit, we don’t need to worry about Hennessey or any of his mates then, do we?’ Jeremy loosened his grip on Ciaran’s mobile as he spoke. ‘Fucking idiot.’

Brennan gasped for air. He’d frightened himself with the momentary loss of control of the van.

‘Shit. Sorry. Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. Ciaran, you alright back there?’

Ciaran rubbed the back of his head and looked at his hand. ‘No blood, so I’d say I’m okay.’

‘Was that your head I heard hitting the side of the van?’ asked Jeremy.

Ciaran smiled. ‘No, the top of the van, not the side.’

Jeremy grunted his approval of Ciaran’s comeback. He looked at the text message once more then directed Brennan again to drive to the manor.

* * * * *

‘You’re a fucking idiot.’ Hennessey thumped his desk with enough force to send pens flying. Although he was sitting, Groban visibly jumped. Hennessey mad was not a man to be trifled with.

‘Sorry.’

‘And stop fucking apologising. Own what you do and say. That’s what real men do. They own their mistakes as they own their successes.’ Hennessey glared at Groban, and gestured to the pens that had rolled onto the floor. ‘Pick those up, number nine.’

Groban looked confused.

‘You only have nine fingers now, don’t you?’ Hennessey quipped. Groban’s shoulders sunk at the insult, and he bent forward to pick up the pens and get out of Hennessey’s view.

Whether it was the effects of the painkillers, or that he’d simply just had enough of Hennessey, Groban snapped. ‘He cut off my fucking finger. Do you really think he’s going to be worried about whether or not to replace your diamonds? It was a warning, my finger in a box sent to you. He wants his money and he wants it now, which unfortunately, is too late for my finger.’

Hennessey was startled into silence. No one had ever spoken to him with the ferocity that Anthony Groban had just done.

‘So, pay him his fucking money, you self-righteous, greedy, arsehole, and maybe no one else will get hurt on your behalf. Because believe you me, after everyone hears why Korsakov cut off my finger, no one here is going to go out of their way to do anything for you again, for fear of the same thing happening to them.’

Hennessey composed himself, straightened his tie, smoothed his hair and leant forward on his desk. He intended to be menacing, intimidating, powerful.

‘You speak to me like that again, and I’ll have Bruno cut off your whole fucking hand. Do I make myself clear?’

Still full of courage, Groban replied, ‘That’s nothing compared to what Korsakov is going to do to me if you don’t pay him what you owe him. So, Brian, you’re making hollow threats. You don’t scare me. Korsakov does, but you don’t. And once he’s finished with me, he’ll come for you. Once again, pay him what you owe.’

Hennessey hadn’t considered that Korsakov might move on to dealing with him personally rather than any of his employees again. More frightening still was the thought that Korsakov might leave him alone and go after his family instead. Groban was speaking some sense.

* * * * *

Jeremy sat closer to Gina. ‘And did he say why he was taking Caroline?’

Gina sniffled. Tears and mucous mingled under her nose. ‘Something about getting to Hennessey through Anthony.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Brennan mumbled. ‘He’s an arsehole of the highest order.’

‘Who?’ Gina asked.

‘Both of them. Hennessey and Korsakov. Neither cares about the collateral damage. People are expendable, even if they’ve been with you for decades. Everyone is disposable.’

‘What – what can we do?’

‘You can’t do anything, Gina,’ Jeremy replied. ‘Leave everything to us. We’ll find Caroline. Now, go upstairs and get some rest. I’ll call in a couple of friends of mine to hang out with you for a while. Kind of a protection detail. Until we can sort this out.’

Ciaran watched Gina plod upstairs. She looked deflated and scared.

‘What are we going to do?’ Ciaran asked Jeremy.

‘We’re going to get Caroline back from Korsakov.’

‘What about the job?’ asked Brennan.

‘Hennessey promised me no one would get hurt, but people are getting hurt. We need to put a stop to this. Hennessey can find someone else to do this one if he doesn’t like it.’

‘Mr Groban, do you want to explain to us again, exactly how did you come to lose your finger?’ DS Sharon James wasn’t sure of the details, but she knew where Anthony Groban’s severed finger ended up – with the forensic team for analysis and identification.

‘Told you, it was an accident. I’m not really a good DIY sort of guy.’

‘Now, Mr Groban, had it not been for the remarkable coincidence of a severed finger being delivered to your boss, Brian Hennessey, this morning, I’d probably be inclined to believe your inept DIY guy story. However, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that the finger now with my forensic team, the finger sent to Hennessey this morning, just happens to belong on your hand. Right where your finger happens to not be.’ She hated when interviewees played games and wasted her time.

Groban let the effects of the painkiller wash over him. The doctor tending to his wound had loaded him up on intravenous painkiller while an operating theatre and a hand surgeon were found. He wasn’t entirely fit to answer any questions, but James and her sidekick weren’t going to leave him alone.

‘Coincidences happen, DS James,’ he replied. His voice was barely a whisper.

‘Who cut off your finger, Mr. Groban?’

‘Can’t rightly say,’ Groban whispered.

James was irritated by his decision to lie. She fired off words like a machine gun. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Anthony. Can I call you Anthony? If the fella who chopped your finger off was happy enough to take a digit, he’ll be just as happy to take something else belonging to you. Like your life. And mark my words, next time, and there will be a next time, he’ll post you piece by piece back to your Mr Hennessey.

Even in the depths of the painkiller induced fog, Anthony knew what she was saying was right. Dmitri Korsakov would kill him without a second thought.

‘If I tell you, he’ll kill me.’

‘And if you don’t, he’ll probably still kill you anyway. So, it’s sort of like a win-win situation. What have you got to lose?’

‘My life.’

* * * * *

Jeremy made himself at home in Hennessey’s office, and accepted the drink he was offered. Swirling the whiskey and ice cubes around the glass, he relaxed into the chair.

‘What is it this time?’

Hennessey looked from his glass to Jeremy at the sound of his visitor’s voice.

‘First of all, I need you to be extra careful this time. With this severed finger episode, the cops are on my case. Secondly, you need to be aware that Dmitri Korsakov is also on my case, and that means he’ll be on yours if he suspects you’re working for me.’

‘Got it.’ Jeremy sipped the whiskey, savouring the flavour.

‘The blue folder on the table.’ Hennessey pointed in front of Jeremy. ‘It got all the information you need. Take it, read it, and if you have questions, get in touch with me through Bruno.’

Jeremy leant forward and took the folder from the table.

‘Finish your drink and get out of here. I don’t want you anywhere near me or my office if the coppers happen to drop by.’ Hennessey gestured for Jeremy to leave immediately. Finishing his drink wasn’t really an option Hennessey wanted Jeremy to take.

* * * * *

Gina brought mugs of tea out to the conservatory. Anthony and Caroline were admiring the view of St. Stephen’s spire.

‘Help yourself to biscuits or cake . . . or both,’ she said. She laid the tray in the centre of the glass table, and served the tea. Caroline unscrewed the top of a bottle of pills, and handed two of them to Anthony. He chased them down with a gulp of tea and two biscuits. It would take about twenty minutes to feel the effects of the pills. Twenty long minutes before the throbbing in his hand subsided. Twenty long minutes of listening to the inane drivel coming out of Caroline and Gina’s mouths. He smiled at Gina as she handed him a plate with a thick wedge of chocolate cake on it.

‘So, who cut off your finger, Anthony?’ Gina asked.

‘Didn’t tell the cops, not going to tell you. Not worth my life for anyone else to find out.’ He gulped down half the mug of tea.

‘D’you know where it ended up?’

‘What?’

‘Your finger. Do you know where it ended up?’

‘No. Sort of. I have an idea. Shit, Gina, you’re morbid. No other woman wants to know that sort of stuff.’

A mischievous smile spread across her face. ‘Well, I heard that it ended up with Brian Hennessey. In a little box that was delivered by a bike courier.’

‘How’d you hear that? Who told you?’ Anthony demanded.

Caroline chimed in. ‘She would’ve have heard it from Ciaran. He’s never been one to keep his trap shut about things that don’t concern him.’

Caroline’s comment bit Gina.

‘It was my Ciaran and his mates that helped your Anthony. Picked him up from the side of the road, took him home, looked after him. He’d have bled to death if not for Ciaran.’

Anthony nodded. ‘Yes, true, so you shut your trap Caroline.’

He looked at Gina. ‘It really is better if the two of you have no idea who did this. Trust me on that.’

‘My money is on Dmitri Korsakov,’ Caroline said. Anthony’s head snapped back to look at her.

‘Why would you say that? How do you even know who Korsakov is or what he gets up to?’

‘I read about him in the paper. They had an article about him in last Wednesday’s Standard. Big name in business apparently. Russian. Looks like he’d shoot you soon as look at you. Or, you know, cut your finger off.’

‘So, you’ve never met him?’ Anthony asked her.

‘Well,’ she drew the word out, ‘only the one time when he came into Hennessey’s club. He seemed nice enough, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He’s a good tipper though.’

Detective Sergeant James tilted the box from side to side and watched as the finger rolled each way. She’d seen a lot in her years of service, but never a severed finger. She found it quite amusing, and hid a minute smile.

‘How many times, DS James, do I need to repeat myself? No, I don’t know who it belongs to. No, I don’t know where it came from. No, I don’t know who sent it to me. And no, I don’t know why it was sent to me. Can we move on from that? Please?’

She handed the box to her partner, who looked at it with disgust.

‘DC Lubowski, bag this as evidence. Thank you.’

Lubowski cautiously took the box with a gloved hand and looked distastefully at its contents as he fumbled with his free hand in his coat pocket for an evidence bag.

‘You want them bagged separately, ma’am?’

She looked at her DC as if he were an imbecile. ‘Seriously? You have to ask me that?’

Hennessey continued to look between the two of them like he was watching a tennis match.

James turned her attention back to Hennessey. ‘Okay then, Mr Hennessey, if you could just go through the events leading up to the parcel delivery for me. I need to establish a timeline. And if you can think of anyone who would do something like this, I’d like their names.’

‘If I can think of anyone who’d do something like this? What, or rather who do you think I am?’

‘Do you really want to play that game with me, Mr Hennessey? I don’t think there’s a copper around who doesn’t know your file by heart.’

Hennessey thought better of replying to DS James, choosing to consider her previous request with the solemnity it deserved.

‘The list, DS James, is extensive.’

‘Not well liked then, sir?’

‘I’ve made many enemies in my line of business.’

‘You’d better start writing down their names then, Mr Hennessey. The sooner I get what I want, the sooner I’ll leave you in peace to – conduct your business.’ She handed Hennessey her pen and a piece of paper from her police notebook.

‘I’m going to need more paper than this.’

* * * * *

Caroline screamed. ‘They cut off your finger?’

All Anthony could do was nod helplessly. The pain was excruciating and the painkillers weren’t helping at all.

‘We need to get you to the hospital.’

‘No,’ he mumbled through the painkiller induced fog that had settled in his brain. ‘No hospitals.’

Caroline cringed at the sight of the blood-soaked bandage that Ciaran, Jeremy and Brennan had fixed to Anthony’s hand.

‘I don’t care what you say, Anthony, I’m taking you to the A and E department. I’m not having you die from blood loss while I’m around.’

She slid her hand under his right arm, and lifted him from the bedroom floor.

‘You could help me a little here, you know. It’s a bit difficult to haul your hundred kilo arse up off the floor. You’re dead weight. Move your arse.’

He squirmed around on the floor, flailing his legs around to get some balance. Realising it was a futile effort, Caroline lowered him to the floor, resting him against the bed.

‘Right, you sit there. I’m calling an ambulance.’ She didn’t wait for his incoherent response, pulling her mobile phone from her pocket, and dialling triple nine. Anthony only made out the odd word, here and there, before passing out once again.

* * * * *

‘Why haven’t we heard from him yet?’ Brennan paced the length of the van in the petrol station car park.

‘I don’t know. For the umpteenth time, I don’t fucking know. He’ll contact us when he contacts us. Just fucking calm down and wait. There’s nothing we can do until he calls. Okay?’ Jeremy snapped. The incident with Anthony had unsettled him. He’d been assured that the jobs they were doing wouldn’t see anyone get hurt, but here was Anthony Groban, the boss’s right hand man, fingerless because Dmitri Korsakov had a grudge.

‘I’m giving him five more minutes,’ Brennan replied.

‘And then what? What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going home. You can do the job by yourself . . . or find someone else to be your sidekick because I’m not having an inch of any work that sees some guy get his finger cut off as a message to your buddy boss.’

Jeremy was by Brennan’s side in a flash, his hand around Brennan’s throat, squeezing tightly as he spoke.

‘You’ll fucking wait here until Hennessey calls. You’ll do the job, and then you can fuck off. But you are not leaving me on my own for this one. It’s going to take the three of us to do it, and you’re sticking around.’

In the van, out of the cold wind, Ciaran sneered at what he was witnessing outside. Brennan had it coming to him. Ciaran was glad that Jeremy had snapped. He’d seen it only once before, between Jeremy and Anthony, and he’d decided he’d never wanted to be on the end of Jeremy dealing out anything other than praise. The man was downright terrifying.

Brennan’s feet dangled three or four inches from the ground, and he struggled to draw breath. Jeremy gave one last powerful squeeze of Brennan’s throat and then dropped him back to the ground.

‘Got it?’ he asked once more.

‘Yep.’ His voice gravelly, Brennan was barely able to reply. He gasped for breath. He wanted to strike out at Jeremy, but this incident had caught him off guard. He’d never seen this side of Jeremy, and he’d known him for twelve years.

As if on cue, Jeremy’s mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his coat pocket and looked at the screen.

‘It’s him,’ he said, and walked away from Brennan and the van to take the call. Brennan watched from the side of the van.

‘Fucker, I’ll have you.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Ciaran called through the window. Brennan glared at the younger man. He’d forgotten Ciaran was even in the van.

‘Shut your fucking face, you pussy,’ Brennan snapped.

‘I’m not the one who was dancing in air because Jeremy caned my arse.’ Ciaran’s sarcasm was nothing compared to Jeremy’s strength.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Bold reply, Brennan. I’m so terrified of you right now.’

Brennan reached for the door handle. Sensing that he was about to get his arse kicked, Ciaran slammed his hand down on the door lock, and held up his middle finger to Brennan’s red face.

‘You’ll keep, you little fucker,’ Brennan barked.

‘Let’s go,’ Jeremy called as he strode back towards the van. ‘We’ve got our instructions.’

Ten minutes after taking the call, Ciaran was standing at the pick-up point waiting for Jeremy and Brennan to arrive. Storm clouds settled overhead, and if they didn’t pick him up soon, Ciaran knew he’d need a change of clothes before they got started on the job. Ciaran heard the vehicle before he saw it. Expecting Brennan’s transit van, he looked expectantly up the road, but was dismayed when he saw the black Range Rover approaching at speed instead.

He stepped back from the road’s edge, almost falling in the crudely carved ditch dug out by the farmer whose land was bound by the road. He steadied himself, and turned again to watch the speeding car coming straight towards him. As it neared, the rear passenger’s door flung open, and a thrashing human form was pushed, screaming, from the car. Ciaran cringed when he heard the body hit the road, a sort of liquid thud that instantly made him want to vomit. He resisted the urge to rush to the man’s assistance until he was sure the Range Rover was well on its way.

‘Hey, are you alright?’ he shouted as he ran towards the body. A low moaning was all the reply he got. Ciaran dropped to his knees, took the man by the shoulders, and gently rolled him onto his back.

‘Anthony?’

A low moan again in recognition of his name.

‘Anthony?’ Ciaran repeated. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Anthony, in distress and shaking with intense pain, raised his left hand. It was crudely bandaged with filthy piece of blood soaked rag. He whimpered as he lowered his hand to his chest.

‘We’ve got to get you to a hospital.’ Ciaran looked up and down the road, praying for Brennan’s van.

‘Who did this, Anthony?’

‘Korsakov,’ Anthony whimpered.

* * * * *

Caroline burrowed down into Gina’s comforter.

‘Glad to see you’ve made yourself at home there, Caroline.’

‘I’d feel even more at home if you’d hook me up with your Netflix password, and make me a snack or order us a pizza.’

Gina kicked off her shoes, and settled in next to her friend. ‘No way I’m giving you access to my account.’

‘Does he know? Have you told him?’ Caroline’s rapid redirection of the conversation caught Gina off guard.

‘Does who know what?’

‘Ciaran. Does he know you’re working at Hennessey’s club?’

Gina stiffened. ‘No, and he’s not going to find out until I’m ready for him to know, so don’t go saying anything to him, Caroline.’

Genuinely shocked that her friend would ever consider speaking to Ciaran McCourt, Caroline quickly responded to the accusation.

‘As if I’d bother talking to him. I can’t stand him. Sorry, Gina, but if the two of you get married, don’t expect me to suddenly start being civil to him. He’s lecherous.’

She had to ask. It had bothered Gina since she and Ciaran had started seeing each other. The animosity between Caroline and Ciaran grew every week it seemed.

‘Why don’t you like each other?’

‘Because he’s a bastard.’

‘Just tell me. I won’t get mad. I’m not asking you to be best buddies with him. I just want to know why you don’t like him.’

Caroline knew the answer to that question would open a can of worms between she and Gina.

‘Leave it alone, Gina. Just chalk it up to one of those things you’re never going to understand.’

* * * * *

Brennan forced open the front door, and Jeremy and Ciaran dragged Groban’s limp body into the entryway and up the stairs to the master bedroom en suite. Droplets of blood marked their journey from the van to the en suite.

‘Floor! Put him on the floor!’ Jeremey shouted. ‘I can’t carry him any longer.’

They lowered Groban to the tiled floor, and Ciaran looked around the room for clean towels. He called out to Groban as he searched.

‘Anthony, towels? Where are your clean towels?’

Groban’s mumbled response sent Ciaran back out to the bedroom. He returned with a bundle of white towels, dropped them next to Jeremy, and immediately set about searching the bathroom cabinets and drawers for anything remotely related to a first aid kit.

‘Has he got the finger?’ Brennan yelled to Jeremy and Ciaran as he stomped up the stairs.

‘What?’ Jeremy called.

‘Has he got the finger? We’ll need to put it in ice if he wants it reattached.’

Jeremy looked to Ciaran for the answer. ‘Well, has he?’

‘How the fuck do I know? It’s not like after I realised what had happened that I quizzed him on the whereabouts of his missing appendage. You ask him.’

‘Sending what to Hennessey?’ asked Brennan as he arrived at the bathroom door.

‘Anthony’s finger. Korsakov’s sending it to Hennessey.’

‘Holy shit, Ant,’ Brennan laughed, ‘what the fuck did you do to deserve that?’

* * * * *

‘Bike courier just delivered this for you Mr Hennessey.’

Hennessey took the small package from his employee, and turned it over in his hands hoping to find the details of who had sent it.

‘Thanks, Bruno. I’ve been expecting this.’ He took the package to his desk and tore the outer packing paper from the box. Bruno moved to Hennessey’s side and watched as his boss undid the box. Both men drew in breath as Hennessey revealed the contents of the delivery.

‘You were expecting that?’ Bruno asked.

‘No,’ whispered Hennessey, ‘not this. Not this.’ He dropped the box onto his desk, looked up at Bruno and back at the box. ‘You’d better call the police, Bruno. Do it now.’

From the folly at Wakefield Manor, Gina could just see St. Stephen’s spire as it rose above the woodland tree line. It hadn’t always been that way. The Great War had destroyed the original spire, and the church had stood derelict for twenty-four years before the village had been able to raise the funds to repair the building. Replacing the once grand spire had been the greatest achievement of the village, according to its oldest landowner, Gina’s grandfather, Braithwaite Kelly. The spire had since stood as the crowning glory of St. Stephen’s.

‘Thought you said it was really impressive? That spire.’

Gina was annoyed at his flippancy. ‘It is really impressive, Ciaran. How can you say it’s not?’

‘Not into churches, I guess.’ He flicked his head so that his fringe momentarily slid away from his eyes.

‘No, of course you’re not. We all know what you are into though, don’t we?’

‘Now, now, let’s not forget that you were a willing participant in it as well.’

She let out a sarcastic laugh, and sneered at him. ‘You can be a right bastard sometimes, you know that, don’t you?’

Ciaran glanced at the screen of his phone.

‘Expecting a call?’

‘Actually, yes, I am,’ he replied. He moved away from Gina to take the call. She stood watching, tinged with just a little jealousy despite having no idea who Ciaran was talking to.

‘Bastard,’ she snipped.

Before she realised he’d ended the call, Ciaran was standing beside her.

‘Hope that wasn’t about me,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The bastard.’

‘And what would you say if it was about you?’ she replied.

‘I’d probably agree with you. I was born out of wedlock, after all.’

‘Bit old fashioned, isn’t it? Born out of wedlock,’ Gina imitated his voice, a mischievous grin on her lips.

‘I’m an old-fashioned bloke. But I’ve got to go. Got a bit of business to attend to.’ Without so much as a look back at Gina, Ciaran left the folly and wandered off through the woods towards St. Stephen’s church.

* * * * *

‘That’s your third cuppa,’ McCormack whined.

‘So? What’s it to you?’ Having spent the last two and a half hours in Brennan’s transit van listening to him incessantly drone on and on about bullshit, three cups of tea on Brennan’s tab was a cheap payback.

‘We don’t have time to keep stopping for you to take a leak.’

‘Got a bladder like a, a, dunno . . . something with a really big bladder,’ Jeremy replied. He smiled, and took a mouthful of tea from the mug in front of him.

‘What are we supposed to do when we get there?’ McCormack changed the subject. He was irritated, annoyed by O’Fallon’s smugness.

‘Well,’ Jeremy replied, ‘he’ll contact us with the rendezvous point and time, and then when we get there, he’ll let us know what needs to be done.’

‘That’s all you know?’

O’Fallon nodded. ‘That’s all I know, so just stop talking, stop worrying, have another cuppa, and relax a bit.’

‘Relax a bit?’ McCormack parroted. ‘Relax a bit? We could end up dead for all you know.’

‘Quieten down, will you?’ O’Fallon ordered. ‘We won’t end up dead. It’s not that sort of job.’

‘How do you know?’ McCormack could feel the panic rising in his body. O’Fallon looked around the café to see if anyone took any notice of McCormack’s outburst. No one was looking in their direction. He dropped his voice to a whisper.

‘He’s not that sort of bloke. There won’t be any danger involved in the job. He likes things neat and tidy and clean. Always has. Trust me, Brennan. I wouldn’t do jobs for him if there was any danger involved. I’ve got a family to consider. Think about it. Would I risk them to do a job for him?’

McCormack was silent as he considered what Jeremy had said.

‘No, I guess you’re right.’

O’Fallon glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Good. Now order another cuppa so we can get back on the road within the next fifteen minutes.’

* * * * *

Sweat dripped from Anthony Groban’s brow onto his blue silk shirt. He mopped his face with the garish yellow tie he’d chosen to wear that morning.

‘Who dressed you?’

‘Sorry?’ Groban’s voice was weak. He was frightened.

‘Who dressed you? This tie. It is hideous with this shirt. Woman would not have chosen this for you to wear. So, I ask again, who dressed you?’ Dmitri Korsakov’s Russian accent was thick, and Groban found it difficult to understand.

‘I did. I dressed myself. I chose what I’m wearing.’

‘Hmmm.’ Korsakov reclined in his chair and stared at the sweating mess before him. ‘Now tell me why your Mr. Hennessey does not want to pay for what he’s purchased.’

Groban desperately thought of the right words that wouldn’t inflame the situation any more than it already was. ‘Well, it’s not, um, it’s not that he doesn’t want to pay, Mr. Korsakov. It’s just that one of the diamonds, it has, um, a flaw. In it. In the middle.’

Korsakov squinted and pursed his lips tighter than they already naturally were. ‘What do you mean a flaw? My diamonds are perfect. No flaws. If there is a flaw it is not my diamond.’

‘But there is – a flaw. And Hennessey wants it fixed.’

‘What?’

‘He wants the flawed diamond replaced.’

‘Does he now? Your Mr. Hennessey.’

Terrified of the Russian, Groban nodded and beads of sweat fell from his head. ‘Y-y-yes.’

‘Tell your Mr. Hennessey that he can go to hell, and if I don’t get my payment, I will come after him. And everyone he loves.’ Korsakov grunted something in Russian, and with a flick of his wrist, two huge bodyguards grabbed Groban under his arms, and dragged him from Korsakov’s sight.

‘What did he say? In Russian?’ Groban pleaded with the bodyguards.

It was the man on Groban’s right who spoke in near perfect English. ‘He told us to cut off one of your fingers as a warning to your boss. Which one will you not miss?’

‘You’re not serious,’ Groban whined.

‘Mr. Korsakov is not known for his sense of humour.’ He looked at the second bodyguard when he spoke. ‘Hold out his hand.’

Korsakov stared out of his study window as Groban’s scream carried through the house from the kitchen.